


Shattered and hollow

by When_Tommy_Met_Alfie



Series: When Tommy met Alfie AU [2]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Hatred, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-30 23:42:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13962621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/When_Tommy_Met_Alfie/pseuds/When_Tommy_Met_Alfie
Summary: Tommy suffers a particularly bad period of insomnia, and ends up in a downward spiral of opium, whiskey and too many hours alone with his thoughts. His thoughts aren’t very kind at night.Then he meets Alfie, who further complicates matters.





	Shattered and hollow

**Author's Note:**

> This is set both before Alfie and Tommy meet, and then in the first month or so after Kiss with a fist. Also, touch starved Tommy is literally a subject I could write like… a master thesis on. (don’t call me out on that) Point is, I’m obsessed. Also, Tommy's cold hands is a headcanon that popped into my mind a few fics ago, and now I can't let it go. So that's in there.

 

Sometimes, during the darkest hours of the night, Tommy wishes that he could be anywhere but in his own body. And his own head.  

When he lies awake, staring at the wall and listening to the shovels. And his chest feels both completely empty and somehow tight at the same time- then he wishes that he could just crawl out of his own skin and be someone else. Or take a knife and carve out the parts of his brain that aren’t working, until he’s left with the rational, logical ones. 

The ones that are of any use. 

... 

It’s another one of those nights when sleep eludes him completely. One of those nights when the opium just makes his thoughts spin faster in his head, and not even the whiskey can take the edge off. So, he pulls on his coat and goes for a walk, body feeling oddly light. Distant. As if his mind is just soaring somewhere above his shoulders, separate from them. 

It feels like that a lot of the time, these days. As if his body is just some vessel that carries his mind around. His mind has always been his greatest asset when it comes to business, so that’s what he relies on. That’s why he forgets to eat. Maybe. 

The night isn’t particularly cold. But his hands feel absolutely freezing. 

Tommy’s hands are cold a lot of the time. Something about the circulation is off, that’s the whole thing. But it feels like a sign, like his body is telling him that he’s not supposed to touch other people. Cold hands do for pulling the trigger of a gun, and go well with bloodied knuckles, but not much else. 

He tells himself he doesn’t need it. Anything else.   

Since when does he spend time on useless thoughts like this?

The opium makes his thoughts fractured, hard to control. He shouldn’t be walking around, not when he’s like this. High. Drunk. Mind cracked from too many nights without sleep. But he does it, still.

How many has it been? Three? Four?    

He goes to check on the horse. Been quite some time since he was in the stables. 

The eyes on the white stallion meet his, unwavering, warm. It hits him that hardly anyone looks at him that way anymore. Without averting their eyes.

 _See, you’ve got cold eyes, boy. Soulless. Bet you not even the devil could look into the for too long._ His dad used to talk about his eyes when the whiskey had gone to his head. _Stop fucking staring at me that way_. _Makes want to cut them out._  

You should never teach a person too much about themselves.

If he’s got cold eyes, fine, he can use that to his advantage.

But it’s hard to look at someone any other way, these days. 

It’s the opium that does it, stirs up all these strange thoughts. Self-pity is not something he indulges in. It’s just a side effect. 

He opens the stall and the horse comes up to greet him. His hand instinctually reaches out to stroke its neck, and when he feels the warmth under his palm, it’s like a wave rushes through his entire body. 

When was the last time he touched another person like this? 

He searches his memory, but nothing resurfaces. 

His head is not working properly. 

Without thinking, he wraps an arm around the horse’s neck and buries his face against the mane. And it’s warm and alive and doesn’t tense up in expectation of a violent outburst- Tommy breathes in the familiar scent and presses the hand against the soft coat. 

It only lasts for a moment, before his mind catches up to him and he backs away, looking around and expecting someone to be there and witness the display of weakness. 

No one is there, of course. 

Just him.

But it’s bad enough, isn’t it?

 ...

He catches some sleep the next night, and it should be enough to get his head in working order again. It is, really. He runs the business with the normal sense of logic and determination, and when John asks how he’s doing, he responds without looking up from the paperwork. Something dismissive, that he can’t recall exactly. John puts a hand on his shoulder, and he shrugs it off.

... 

It's there, even during the day, when his head is clear and the opium smoke is far away. This numbness. It feels more and more like he’s just living completely inside his own head, and his body is this separate entity that he just drags around.

And he’s radiating this… cold. Not really someone you want to reach out for. So people eventually stop. 

Even Finn becomes hesitant with his normally so frequent hugs.

And he doesn’t know what to do about it.

 ...

“Talk to me, Tommy,” Polly says when she catches him late one night in the kitchen, on his way out. “There’s something wrong, I can tell.”

“Everything is fine,” Tommy says flatly and brushes past her. One of her hands wraps itself around his arm. He fights the urge to recoil at the touch. 

“If it’s something with the business, I deserve to know.” 

Right. The business. 

“It’s nothing, Pol. Nothing you don’t already know about.” He pins her with his eyes. “Full disclosure. Didn’t we agree on that?” 

She doesn’t let go. 

“Well, then it’s you,” she says, voice uncharacteristically soft, and rubs her palm along his arm. “Has something happened?” Tommy shifts away from the hand. 

“It’s getting worse,” Polly states then with her uncanny frankness, dropping the arm to her side. 

“What?” 

“Whatever is going on with your head,” she says. “I can hear you get out of bed in the middle of the night. Not come back until dawn. And you’re distant. Like you’re never actually here. More every day.”

“Just some trouble sleeping, that’s all,” Tommy keeps his tone void of emotion. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Not sleeping is something to worry about. It does things to the mind. Things you have no control over. Makes you reckless.” Pol looks him in the eye. She is one of the few people he can’t stare down. There is genuine concern there –Pol has warm eyes. “You’ll end up hurting someone. Yourself, if I know you right.” 

For just a moment, he wants to tell her.

This impulse makes him walk past her and out the door.   

...

One time, on one of those nightly walks, he feels so disconnected from his own body that he thinks his nerves must’ve stopped functioning properly. That the little threads running through him has broken, and that’s why he can’t feel. 

It's like he is floating. 

He draws in warm smoke into his lungs, and it helps a bit. 

He smokes until he runs out of cigarettes, and the surreal sensation of being completely numb grows. Until he’s drowning in it- he ends up at the end of some dark alley, without even remembering how he got there, hands resting on the rough bricks as he tries to just breathe. Tries to get some air past the rope that is wrapped so tightly around his chest. 

He’s teetering on the edge of some abyss of complete and utter insanity, that’s what it feels like right at that moment. 

_Maybe if he could carve out all the parts of himself that he-_

He bites his knuckles –a nervous habit he hasn’t fallen into in years. But the pain at least makes his hands feel real again. 

Somehow, he finds his way back home and collapses in bed, falling into an unconscious darkness. 

When a bleak sun shines light through his window only a few hours later, he sees the wounds and is overwhelmed by disgust. He has to stop using –he can’t afford to lose control like this.

... 

Approaching the Jewish gang in London is quite possibly one of those reckless things Polly talked about. And it very nearly does get him killed, due to his little encounter with Sabini’s men. It’s only luck that Arthur and John show up at the right moment.

But then again, it also leads him to Alfie Solomons. Who crashes into his life and turns everything on its head. In more ways than one. 

And for a moment, it pulls him away from the edge.  

...

Tommy wouldn’t have pinned Alfie as particularly gentle, or affectionate. Though it really shouldn’t shock him that Alfie proves him wrong, because if there’s one thing he is –its full of surprises. Turns out, he can be both.

Tommy especially thinks of it the first time they share a bed. Which takes much longer than he thought it would, for reasons he doesn’t care to look into. There are a lot of heated kisses, in Alfie’s office, in dark alleys, or the snug at the Garrison after closing hours. But it doesn’t go further than that; as if they’ve suddenly turned into nervous boys… Tommy doesn’t think too hard about it. Tries to, at least. 

For the most part, he’s just so lost in the feeling of finally being touched by someone. Who wants to touch him, who doesn’t feel obliged to. But the high only lasts for those short, fleeting moments. And soon, he’s back in his own bed, staring into the ceiling and overwhelmed by that feeling of existing just outside of his own body. 

Eventually, they do end up in bed together. Alfie’s own bed, in London. And it’s… Tommy won’t lie, it’s something else, as cliché as it sounds. It’s good. It’s really, really good.  

There’s a bit of fumbling, granted. Because it all feels so new, somehow. And despite Alfie taking the time to open him up with his fingers, Tommy is wound far too tightly at first, and it’s painful when Alfie pushes into him. Not all the way, but it's enough. He squeezes his eyes shut and braces himself, knowing it’ll feel good in a while –just have to get through this first bit. But Alfie just pulls out and kisses his cheek.

“Sorry about that, sweetheart. Got a bit eager-“ he smiles down at Tommy and winks. “Bit more work to do, eh? Don’t worry, I’ll make it good for you.” And instead of telling Alfie that it’s fine, and he should just get on with it, Tommy lets out a laugh. He’s happy right then. To be there with Alfie. 

When Alfie finally fills him up him completely, it doesn’t hurt at all. And he tells him all kinds of things –that Tommy is beautiful, how good it feels to fuck him… And he wants to know how it feels for him: good? Should he go harder? Slower?  

He looks at Tommy as if he’s this precious thing. 

Tommy is just there, in the moment.

Afterwards, Alfie wraps his arms around him and pulls him close, until his head is resting on his chest. 

Tommy feels that familiar urge to run beginning to claw at him. They’ve fucked, it’s over and done with. Surely Alfie Solomons isn’t the type who _cuddles_. 

And he feels pathetic, for wanting this. 

Alfie is just doing what is expected of him, following a sort of unwritten rule.

It’s their first time, so there must be a lot of preconceived ideas about the whole thing. 

Tommy doesn’t need his sufferance, and is tempted to dislodge himself and reach for a cigarette. But even though his mind is racing, his body feels heavy in Alfie’s arms. Like it wants to stay there. Like it’s longed just to be close to someone. 

So he stays. For a little while. The bedroom comes with a different set of rules, always has. So maybe he can play along.

God, since when did he become so fucking pitiful? 

He’s stopped using the opium. This is just something lingering. That’s all this is.   

After kissing the top of his head and squeezing him a bit tighter, Alfie falls asleep.

Tommy doesn’t. 

It feels like he’s got a weight on his chest, making it hard to breathe. He thinks it must be caused by how he’s pressed against Alfie’s body. 

Careful not to wake him, he pulls out from the embrace and lies down at the edge of the mattress. 

It doesn’t help. 

Eventually, Tommy gives up on the idea of sleeping and goes down to sit on Alfie’s couch instead.

... 

After that first time, this becomes his new drug. He finds himself going to London far more often than what is reasonable, and they find a shoddy hotel in Birmingham where -for the right price- no-one asks questions. 

Tommy throws himself into the whole thing with reckless abandon, and Alfie seems both enthralled and a bit surprised. 

Alfie always dutifully wraps him up in that sure embrace afterwards. 

Tommy spends the majority of the night curled up on the opposite side of the mattress. Or down in Alfie’s living room. Fucking is one thing. The rest is something else, and he doesn’t need that.  

It’s the fifth, or maybe sixth time they share a bed. Not like he’s keeping count or anything. 

Tommy is on his back, and Alfie holds onto the headboard of the bed for leverage as he fucks him.

It’s better than the opium. 

Alfie rolls off him with a satisfied sigh, stretching his limbs and looking very pleased with both himself and the overall situation. Tommy expects him to pull him close, the way he usually does. He’s even decided that perhaps he could… stay like that for a bit longer tonight. Maybe it’s because the weather has been getting colder, and he along with it, and he just desperately wants for something to warm him up, if only for a moment…   

Only Alfie doesn’t. Instead he puts his hands behind his head and stares thoughtfully up at the ceiling. 

Tommy reaches for his jacket on the floor and fishes out the cigarette case, ignoring that it suddenly feels like his insides have tied themselves into a knot.

“Yeah, figures you weren’t the cuddly type,” Alfie says, tone light and with a hint of a smile visible through the beard. 

Unable to respond to this, Tommy just lights a cigarette. 

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” Alfie goes on. “That you always end up on the opposite side of the bed. Looks like you’re about to fall off, the way you curl up at the edge. So I recon you’re not really into the whole ‘laying in my arms and gazing longingly at my face-thing.” 

“But you are?” Tommy draws the smoke far into his lungs and wants to store the warmth there.

“’Course I am!” Alfie looks almost offended. “Best fucking part of the whole thing. Well, maybe that’s taking it a bit far. Because you really are just… something else in bed, darling.” He chuckles and shakes his head slowly. “I mean, fucking you is like a… religious bloody experience, right. So it’s not really comparable to anything.” His fingers trail lightly over Tommy’s collarbone. “But… you know, it’s at least as fucking good. Just in a different way.” He pauses. “Though, not if you don’t like it. Then it’s pointless, innit? Should be a mutual thing.” 

“Who knew you were so considerate,” Tommy quirks an eyebrow.   

“Don’t say shit like that,” Alfie furrows his brow. “Don’t like having insinuations made about me. Not when it comes to this. I'm a bad man, alright. But not in that way.”   

Tommy shrugs. 

“So, I take it you need your space, then?”

“Sure,” Tommy answers. Because what the fuck is he supposed to say? He’s fucking pathetic alright, but Alfie doesn’t need know that. He’s burnt this bridge now.

“Fine. Maybe you’ll change your mind. Bit further down the line.” 

“I wouldn’t hold my breath.” Tommy puts the cigarette out and rolls onto his side, back turned against him. Alfie just chuckles quietly and turns the light off. 

A while later, his soft snores fill the room. Tommy lies awake. 

Maybe he should put an end to this whole thing. Before Alfie discovers what he’s gotten himself into and ends it for him. 

Why should he put up with it? 

Tommy wouldn’t put up with himself if he wasn’t forced to. 

 ...

They meet up again the following week. Same shoddy hotel, same creaking bed. Alfie tells Tommy to ride him, lifts him up onto his lap and holds him close. 

Tommy wants it to last, because like this, nothing is complicated. He can cling to Alfie, bury his face against his neck, let himself be held without thinking of the consequences. Alfie’s warmth thaws him from the inside out, and all those broken nerve endings seem to mend themselves. 

Of course it does end, eventually, and once he’s back in his own head again, Tommy untangles himself from Alfie’s grip and reaches for his cigarettes. 

Alfie talks about the different uses of nettles. There are a lot, apparently, and either he knows them all, or he’s making it up as he goes along. Tommy smokes and listens, feeling a smile twitch at his mouth. As long as Alfie is talking, he doesn’t really think about anything else.   

Eventually, Alfie cuts off the long monologue with a yawn. He glances at Tommy and offers an arm in an inviting gesture.

“Still not feeling the least bit cuddly, sweetheart?” 

It’s too late to change anything now, isn’t it? Would feel like admitting weakness. He can’t afford himself to be weak. He thinks of those first times, how it felt…  And he wants- 

“Not really,” he says and rolls over to his side. 

Alfie just lets out that low chuckle. 

“All sharp edges, ain’t ya´, Tommy?” 

He doesn’t answer. 

Alfie falls asleep within a few minutes. 

Tommy's chest feels tight. 

This will be one of those bad nights, he feels it more by each passing second. And there’s nothing here to take the edge off. 

The unwelcomed thoughts start clawing at his brain, and he tries to focus on the sound of Alfie’s breathing. 

He gives up. 

Fuck this, there’s no point in lying here and feel the walls close in. 

Tommy swings his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing a bit as he takes the first unsteady step over the rough floorboards. The urge to get out of the room is suddenly overwhelming, so his movements are a bit frantic as he pulls on his clothing, only bothering with the necessities, before grabbing his coat. 

It’s cold outside. 

He ends up at the stables in spite of himself, warming his hands against the mane of the horse. It’s happy to see him. 

He stays longer than he should. 

The door creaks as someone opens it, and in a rehearsed movement, Tommy pulls his gun and turns to face the newcomer, hands steady. 

“Bloody hell, you point that towards everyone you sleep with?” Alfie’s voice comes from the shadows and he steps out in the dim light flooding the stable. “Then again, you don’t really sleep, do you, Tommy? Must be why you’re so fucking on edge all the time. Go on, put that away now. Going to spook that horse if you shoot me here. I mean look at it, it’s all twitchy.” 

Tommy has already lowered the gun and put it back in its holster. 

“What are you doing here, Alfie?” he asks and turns back to calm the frightened horse. It only takes a moment –he’s always been better with horses than people. At least when it comes to touching them. 

“Really could ask you the same, mate.” Alfie is coming towards him. “I just followed you, didn’t I? Or, I followed my instinct is more like it. Figured you might be hiding out here.” 

“Thought you were asleep.” 

“Well you thought wrong, didn’t you?” 

Alfie is standing right behind him now. “Was for a while, sure. Woke up and discovered you were gone. Thought that maybe you’d taken the whole thing a bit further, your whole… intense self-loathing thing. Just decided to sleep on the floor. Seemed like a thing you could do, right. Fuckin’ hell, if I could only take a look inside that brain of yours-” 

Tommy is bracing himself for more questions that he can’t answer, when a warm hand comes to rest on the back of his neck. The touch makes him flinch involuntarily.

“Fuck, you’re absolutely freezing,” Alfie mutters. “Will catch your death, hanging out in damp old stables at night. Come here-“

A pair of strong hands grabs his shoulders and turns him around. And a moment later, he is enveloped in a tight embrace. Alfie opens his coat and brings it up around him, forming this warm cocoon, as he holds him close to his chest. Tommy is absolutely rigid in his arms. 

“What are you doing?” he asks dumbly, hands twitching at his sides as he considers pushing him away. Alfie huffs. 

“I know that head of yours ain’t always working right, but even you must know what a fucking hug is. Now relax, will you? You ain’t a rabbit caught in a bloody snare.” 

His head is telling him that he needs to distance himself from this; this is too close. Alfie pities him. But it’s physically impossible not to give in. Every little bit of resistance melts away, and he completely falls into the strength of Alfie’s arms, burying his nose in the crook of his neck and wrapping his own arms tightly around his waist. It must be cold, but Alfie doesn’t even flinch. And the warmth seeps into his fractured nerves and softens his tense body. 

“There we go,” Alfie whispers and rubs his back. “Figured you needed one of these. Just to warm you up, eh?” 

Tommy wonders for a moment if Alfie can actually see straight through his head. 

Alfie takes him back to the hotel, undresses him and wraps him in a just as tight embrace in bed. And Tommy knows its desperate and pathetic and- _fuck_ he wishes he didn’t need this so badly. But he does. And he’s so fucking tired. So he huddles as close as he’s able to and hides his face against Alfie’s chest. Alfie begins to stroke his hair. 

The tightness in his chest disappears, and he can finally draw breath all the way down his lungs.

“Should’ve seen this is what you need,” Alfie mutters into his hair. 

Tommy pretends to be asleep. Alfie keeps holding him just as tight, and he lies there and waits for the grip to loosen, for him to drift off. It doesn’t happen. The arms remain firm around him, anchoring him in warmth. And he listens to Alfie’s heartbeat. 

Until he actually does fall asleep. 

...

Alfie’s hands are rarely far away after that. Tommy sometimes wishes he wasn’t so good at reading him, because it makes him feel oddly vulnerable. That whenever he gets too caught up in something, and he’s beginning to sink into the disconnected fog, Alfie is there to draw him out of it. Putting an arm around his shoulders, or a hand on the back of his neck. Just to ground him.

Granted there is quite a bit of groping as well –Tommy doesn’t mind in the least. Alfie wants to touch him, that's what matters. 

Tommy is bad at doing the same, at first. It takes a while to remember what it’s like to touch someone without ulterior motives. And then it’s his hands… he doesn’t want Alfie to flinch because he’s got those icy fingers on some days. It’s late autumn, now, so that doesn’t exactly help the situation. 

They’re in the snug at the Garrison, presumably conducting business. At the moment, that is actually what they’re doing. Tommy is helping Alfie with the bookkeeping, because the sooner they get that over with, the sooner they can do something more useful with their time.  

Eyes still on the documents before him, Tommy reaches across the table for a paper and accidentally touches Alfie’s bare arm. He instinctually withdraws the hand, as if he’s burned himself. 

“Fucking hell, mate, those are some cold fucking hands,” Alfie mutters, glancing up over the edge of his glasses. Without hesitation he takes Tommy’s hand into both of his and starts to gently rub the back of it with his thumbs.   

Tommy is frozen in his seat. But Alfie seems unfazed. As if this is something completely natural. 

“See, you’ve got to get the blood running, right?” He nods to himself. “That’s the whole thing. Bet you faint easily, too… ‘Cause the blood doesn’t reach your head quick enough.” Alfie goes back to reading something very intently, but keeps massaging his hand, moving up the wrist. Squeezes the fingers in his warm palms. 

“I don’t _faint_ easily,” Tommy says firmly, but is terrified of doing something that will make Alfie stop. 

“So you’re telling me you never get dizzy if you stand up to quick?” Alfie chuckles to himself and turns his hand over, taking care of the palm next. Little by little, he feels how the heat creeps down his wrist and into his hand.   

“No.” Yes, but only if he hasn’t slept in a few days. 

“Well, I’ll keep an eye on you. Bound to happen, what with the not eating thing. But we’ll work on that. Till then, guess I’ll just stick around, yeah?” Alfie glances up at him and winks “Make sure to catch you if you swoon a little.” 

“You fucking wish,” Tommy offers a raised eyebrow in a display of scepticism. “We need to talk about your obsession with carrying me.”

“You never let me,” Alfie retorts. “You and your silly ideas. Now give me that other hand.” 

Tommy does.

 ...

He’s sitting in the kitchen one night, instead of wandering the streets aimlessly. And it’s got nothing to do with Alfie, and how he always asks about it the next time they meet. _“Don’t like it that you’re out when you’re that way. All jittery and fucked in the head.”_ So he tries staying indoors. 

Arthur comes home from the Garrison, halting his step as he passes in the hallway.

“Tommy!” He exclaims and shoots him a lopsided grin as he stumbles into the kitchen and slumps down next to him on the sofa. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Yes. Must be such a surprise. In our own house,” Tommy says and empties his glass.

“Well, you’re always rushing about these days,” Arthur reaches for the whiskey, as if he’s not drunk enough already. “Was bloody worried ‘bout you for awhile, you know. Seemed to be spinning completely out of control- your eyes were all hollowed out-“

Arthur noticed.

“But it’s better now. I can tell,” Arthur smiles that way he does when he gets sentimental. “Don’t know what it is, but you’re a bit softer ‘round the edges.” 

Tommy wishes Arthur wouldn’t remind him of that. 

Then Arthur wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him against his side. 

“Yeah, whatever it is that’s doin’ it… just stick to it aight?” He reaches up and tousles his hair roughly. And Tommy doesn’t bat his hand away. “See, I’m gonna look out for you better now, Tom,” Arthur’s voice is thick with emotion. He probably won’t remember the whole thing tomorrow. “Better than when we were kids-“ his fingers brush lightly against the small scar on Tommy’s left cheek. This, Tommy shifts away from. But Arthur is too far gone to take any notice. His eyes linger on the mark. “Better than with our-” 

“I’m not a child, you don’t have to fucking-“ Tommy starts to protest, but then bites his tongue and softens his tone a bit. “You’ve always done your best, Arthur. That’s enough.” No point in making him upset about this. 

Arthur rests his elbows on his knees and nods slowly to himself, staring at some undetermined spot on the floor with glazed eyes. 

The floorboards creek as Polly comes into the kitchen with that knowing look on her face, and a faint smile curling her lip.

“Oh sorry, are we waking Finn up?” Arthur wonders, quite a bit too loud in relation to the subject of the question. 

“It’s fine, he’s used to this racket by now,” Polly says and crosses her arms over her chest. 

“Well I’m off to bed,” Arthur states and gives Tommy’s hair another affectionate tug. “Don’t stay up too long, Tommy-boy. Not good for that head of yours.” 

He leaves the room on unsteady feet, and Tommy just hopes he won’t fall walking up the stairs. 

A sense of calm settles in the kitchen, and Tommy finds himself staying right where he is. 

“I actually came down here to make tea,” Polly says and goes about it. “This house is bloody freezing.”

He should leave, before she starts asking things. 

But Polly just sets the teapot and two cups down on the table, before seating herself and opening her book. 

She doesn’t ask any questions. Just sits there with him.

Tommy doesn’t tell her anything. But he doesn’t leave, either.


End file.
